David Peace - 1974

Fitzwilliam looming, a dirty brown mining town.

My fat white right hand upon the steering wheel, left hand through my pockets. My one good hand and my teeth unfolding a torn-out page from the Redbeck’s phone book:

Ashworth, D., 69 Newstead View, Fitzwilliam .

Circled and underlined.

FUCK THE IRA was sprayed on the iron bridge into town.

“Aye-up lads. Where’s Newstead View?”

Three teenage boys in big green trousers, sharing a cigarette, spitting big pink-streaked chunks of phlegm at a bus shelter window.

They said, “You what?”

“Newstead View?”

“Right by offy. Then left.”

“Ta very much.”

“I should think so.”

I struggled to wind up my window and stalled as I drove off, the three big green trousers waving me off with a big pink shower and two forked fingers all round.

Under my bandages, four fingers smashed into one.

Right at the off-licence, then left on to Newstead View.

I pulled over and switched off the engine.

Newstead View was a single line of terraces looking out on to dirty moorland. Ponies grazed between rusting tractors and piles of scrap metal. A pack of dogs chased a plastic shopping bag up and down the road. Somewhere babies were crying.

I felt around inside my jacket pockets.

I took out my pen, my stomach empty, my eyes filling.

I stared at the white right hand that wouldn’t close, at the white right hand that wouldn’t write.

The pen rolled slowly off the bandages and on to the floor of the car.

69 Newstead View, a neat garden and flaking window frames.

TV lights on.

Knock, knock.

I switched on the Philips Pocket Memo in my right jacket pocket with my left hand.

“Hello. My name is Edward Dunford.”

“Yes?” said a prematurely grey woman through bucked teeth and an Irish accent.

“Is your James home?”

Hands stuffed deep into a blue housecoat, she said, “You’re the one from the Post aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.”

“The one that’s been talking to Terry Jones?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want with our Jimmy?”

“Just a quick chat, that’s all.”

“He had enough of a chat with the police. He doesn’t need to keep going over it. Specially with likes of…”

I reached out to steady myself, grabbing at the frame of the front door.

“You been in some kind of accident have you?”

“Yeah.”

She sighed and mumbled, “You’d better come in and sit yourself down. You don’t look right clever.”

Mrs Ashworth shooed me into the front room and a chair too close to the fire.

“Jimmy! There’s that gentleman from the Post here to see you.”

My left cheek already burning, I heard two loud thumps from the room up above.

Mrs Ashworth switched off the TV, plunging the room into an orange darkness. “You should have been here earlier.”

“Why?”

“Well I didn’t see it myself like, but they said the place was swarming with police.”

“When?”

“About five this morning.”

“Where?” I asked, staring through the gloom at a school photo on top of the TV, a long-haired youth smirking back at me, the knot in his tie as big as his face.

“Here. This street.”

“Five o’clock this morning?”

“Yeah, five. No-one knows what it were about, but everyone reckons it were…”

“Shut up Mam!”

Jimmy Ashworth was standing in the doorway in an old school shirt and purple tracksuit bottoms.

“Ah, you’re up. Cup of tea?” said his mother.

I said, “Please.”

“Yeah,” said the youth.

Mrs Ashworth walked out of the room half backwards, mut tering.

The boy sat down on the floor, his back against the sofa, flicking the lank strands of hair from his eyes.

“Jimmy Ashworth?”

He nodded. “You’re bloke what spoke to Terry?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Terry said there might be some brass for us?”

“Could be.” I was desperate to change seats.

Jimmy Ashworth reached up behind him to a packet of ciga rettes on the arm of the sofa. The packet fell on to the carpet and he took out a cigarette.

I sat forward and said quietly, “You want to tell me what happened?”

“What happened to your hand?” said Jimmy, lighting up.

“I got it caught in a car door. What about your eye?”

“Shows does it?”

“Only when you spark up. Coppers give you it?”

“Maybe.”

“Give you a hard time, did they?”

“Could say that.”

“So get some brass out of it. Tell us what happened?”

Jimmy Ashworth pulled hard on his cigarette and then exhaled slowly into the orange glow of the fire.

“We were waiting for Gaffer, but he never come and it was raining so we were just arsing about, you know, drinking tea and stuff. I went over to Ditch to have a waz and that’s when I saw her.”

“Where was she?”

“In Di^ch, near top. It were like she’d rolled down or some thing. Then I saw them, them…”

The kettle in the kitchen began to whistle.

“Wings?”

“You know then?”

“Yeah.”

“Terry tell you?”

“Yeah.”

Jimmy Ashworth brushed at the hair in his face, singeing it slightly with the end of his cig. “Shit.”

The smell of burnt hair filled the room.

Jimmy Ashworth looked at me. “They was all caught up.”

“What did you do?” I said, turning as far as I could from the fire.

“Nothing. I just fucking froze. I couldn’t believe it was her. She looked so different, so white.”

Mrs Ashworth came back in with a teatray and set it down. “They were always saying what a lovely little thing she was,” she whispered.

My whole right arm felt like the blood had stopped moving in it. “And you were alone?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

The hand throbbed again, the bandage sweating and itching. “What about Terry Jones?”

“What about him?”

“Thanks,” I said, taking a cup from Mrs Ashworth. “When did Terry see her?”

“Well I went back to tell lads didn’t I?”

“When was this?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well you just said you froze, so I was wondering how long you were standing there before you told the others?”

“I don’t fucking know.”

“Jimmy, please. Not in this house,” his mother said quietly.

“But he’s same as bleeding coppers. I don’t know how long it was.”

“I’m sorry Jimmy,” I said, putting down the cup of tea on top of the fireplace so I could scratch at my bandage.

“I went back to shed and I was hoping Gaffer’d be there, but…”

“Mr Foster?”

“Nah, nah. Mr Foster’s Boss. Gaffer is Mr Marsh.”

“George Marsh. Very nice man,” said Mrs Ashworth.

Jimmy Ashworth looked at his mother and sighed and said, “Anyroad, Gaffer weren’t there, just Terry.”

“What about the others?”

“They’d pissed off in van somewhere.”

“So you told Terry Jones and he went back over to Devil’s Ditch with you?”

“No, no. I went and telephoned police. Once were enough for me.”

“So Terry went over there to have a look while you tele phoned the police?”

“Yeah.”

“By himself?”

“By his sen, that’s what I said.”

“And?”

Jimmy Ashworth looked off into the orange glow. “And police came and took us up Wood Street Nick.”

“They thought he’d done it, you know.” Mrs Ashworth was dabbing at her eyes.

“Mum shut up!”

“What about Terry Jones?” I said, my hand throbbing hard then stopping numb, sensing something missing.

“He’s no good that one.”

“Mum, will you bloody shut up!”